The perfectly put together woman in front of me smiles warmly, like I’ve pleased her. “This is really encouraging, I think we can definitely make some progress with this. Before our next session I want you to—” I tune her out, instead focusing on the way her lips crinkle in the corners as she speaks. I notice the way a single tendril of hair has come loose from the neat style she wears, curling rebelliously near her temple. I wonder if she knows how beautiful she is when she’s not trying. When she’s justbeing.
I bite my lip to contain my groan, shifting myself discreetly to adjust my aching erection.
Doctor Emily Morgan.
You might just be my newest obsession.
2
Because She’s Mine
Eli's Search History: How long can someone stay in one place before they need fresh air?
Eli
WhydidIchoosethe most boring woman on earth to stalk?
Did I strangle a nun in a past life?
She’s a therapist. I thought that meant depth. Secrets. Darkness. People like that usually have skeletons—whole graveyards—in their wardrobes.
But no.
She reads. She works. She comes home. Reads some more. Always alone. Always quiet.
I have watched her pour exactly one glass of wine in the last three weeks.One.
When I planted the cameras, I braced myself for something messy. Something twisted. Iwantedtwisted.
Instead, she gives me silence and second-hand embarrassment.
Right now, she’s on the couch, wrapped in a fluffy blanket. A mug of chamomile tea in one hand, and in the other“The Body Keeps the Score.”
Yes.Thatone. The trauma bible.
She’s been devouring it like it’s a thriller. Nodding. Annotating. Pausing to stare into space like she’s either unravelling a memory or diagnosing the air.
Sometimes she talks to herself. Softly. Like she’s the patient, too.
I’ve watched twelve hours of footage today. She’s moved maybe twice. Blinked twenty-thousand times. (Yes, I counted. Don’t judge me.)
And yet… I can’t stop.
It’s not just because I want her. And God do I want her. It’s because I’m terrified of what will happen if I stop. When I was seven, I took my eyes off my mother—playing at the neighbour’s house—and when I came back, she was gone. I am the anchor. I have to keep my eyes on Emily, or the tide will pull her away.
And yet, I could’ve stalked someone thrilling. A murderer. A con artist. A politician.
Instead, I picked the quiet woman dissecting the human psyche in an avocado Oodie.
The only interesting thing about her, is that on Tuesday’s she has some sort of off-the-books therapy session via video call. I don’t know who the client is, but clearly, it’s someone important.
I watch the sessions through my own camera’s, zooming in on Emily’s laptop. She doesn’t know that I broke into her flat and added one to every room. She should really lock her windows. It’s not safe. But thankfully, she has me now.
Yesterday, at exactly seven, just as every Tuesday evening, she opened her laptop and started the call. A woman, not much younger than her, with blonde hair and blue eyes filled the screen—I hated the brief moment when the blonde hair appeared, and I couldn’t stop my thoughts from wondering. Was it Jenny? Did I want it to be? But, of course, once I’d zoomed in fully, I saw the eyes, the rest of her features—it wasn’t her. There was a relief there I hadn’t expected.
They discussed a lot, but the main take-away I got from it,was that there is more to Emily than meets the eyes.
Yes, she has a boring life. One that should be filled with far more interesting things. But… she and this woman discussed murder so casually you’d have thought it was normal. In my world, it is. But Emily seems too innocent for that.